


suck a dick, mister lukas

by Aza (sazandorable)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, M/M, MAG126 spoilers, Martin tops (kindof), Office Blow Jobs, Power Imbalance, Spooky Grooming, Workplace Sexual Harassment, like Martin isn't exactly AGAINST it but the entire context & power dynamic is Bad and Peter is Bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 15:31:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17789993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sazandorable/pseuds/Aza
Summary: Martin doesn't like being manipulated. He much prefers being in charge.





	suck a dick, mister lukas

**Author's Note:**

> 1) beta'd and largely improved by the wonderful Cass, this is the best thing about getting your friends into your fandom
> 
> 2) backdated bc i finished this like an hour after midnight but it was _intended_ to be posted on vday and i'm genuinely heartbroken to have messed that up.
> 
> HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY MARTIN CANONICALLY TOPS... SOMETIMES... KINDOF

Peter ends up taking the seat, which Martin can't exactly object to — it's _Elias's_  chair, to start with, and thus technically it is indeed more Peter's than Martin's, notwithstanding the amount of time Martin spends in it doing the admin busywork. Peter would not hesitate a second to comment on Martin drawing perverse enjoyment out of taking Elias' literal place managing the Institute if he were to complain, so he doesn't, and instead stays standing awkwardly at Peter's elbow, pointing out the boxes in his perfectly simple spreadsheet and trying not to scream at Peter's cheerful ineptitude. There are things you get used to after a few months, and there are things that only get worse.

The tape recorder turns itself off with a reprobating click at the exact instant Peter's hand makes contact with Martin's hip. Martin can't blame it.

He grabs the mouse back and snaps, quiet but warning: " _Peter_."

"What?" Peter's nose nuzzles into his flank, like some huge obnoxious cat doing its best to shed on all its things. "What's the point in having a personal secretary, if not workplace sexual harassment?"

"You are _such_ a creep," Martin sighs.

It is reassuring in some little way, though, each time Peter demonstrates how horrible a person he is. Makes it easy to remember he's not really a person at all.

Peter's arm finishes wrapping around his waist and pulls, gently but insistent, demanding. "We're not even halfway through the file," Martin groans. "I mean, it's not hard, but are you even going to understand this if I don't —?

"I don't care. You'll just have to be the one to write the instruction e-mail." Peter's hand is crawling under his waistband now; Martin would compare it to a tarantula, but he isn't nearly as subtle as the spiders.

He tugs it out of his pants, mumbling, "Peter, _please_ ," and scrolls down a few lines in the vague hope of getting to the end of the actually quite short spreadsheet this afternoon. He isn't convinced, though.

Peter relents; recedes. His hand and arm and face leave Martin and he pulls away, pushing off the desk and rolling a few inches to the side (and away from the computer screen and keyboard). "All right, all right," he chants, like your favourite nice and reasonable uncle (not that Martin knows what those are like), "I'll leave you alone then, I suppose."

Martin takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Glares over his shoulder, fuzzy-sighted and not caring.

Peter has ebbed _away_ , a pointed distance between them, empty space that Martin has to cross in order to reach him: Peter's not going to reel him in, Martin can't just lean into him, he has to come to him, and he misses neither the gaslighting manipulation nor the glaring symbolism in that.

He comes to Peter and stops in front of him, and Peter smiles that slow and insufferably unflappable smile, and his hands just repurpose to grabbing Martin's arse and pulling him close again.

Martin isn't _touch-starved_ , exactly — he's always been used to what's probably less physical contact and affection than average — but he is, as planned — as engineered — as counted on — extremely lonely, and it has been... not that long, but a little while, still. Peter, unsurprisingly, likes to disappear and leave him entirely alone for days at a time, sometimes weeks; this is the first he's shown again since Jon woke up, and Martin hasn't missed _him_ , obviously, but he isn't quite swimming in other offers. So when he climbs into Peter's lap, it's not just to humour his technical boss.

Peter hums happily and shifts, sinking into the leather seat and bucking his hips, blithely offering up his erection for Martin to straddle or sit on. Martin really isn't in the mood for riding him in a chair, though, even Elias's chair. Too peeved, at Peter and also in general, to stand being that passive and servile right now. So he swivels the chair around, leans back, heaves himself up to sit on the desk — which Peter goes along with with one more pleasant, teeth-baring, steel-sharp smile, his rough hands scuttling down Martin's thighs — and yanks Peter's head down by a fistful of hair.

Peter chortles between his thighs, heat and low rumble reaching Martin's cock through the fabric of his trousers. He isn't hard yet, but he will be. "Oh, Martin, does this really warrant getting mad?"

Martin reaches over to close the laptop. He's not sure, still, whether that does anything, but that'll at least probably disable the webcam, and there's no such thing as being overly cautious in the Magnus Institute.

The tape recorder has just up and vanished, he notices, unsurprised.

"Who says I'm mad?" he murmurs. "Maybe I just want you to suck my dick."

Peter laughs, for real this time; the difference is in the sudden screeching whistle spearing into Martin's ears and through his brain. He doesn't even go very high in pitch, the sound itself isn't a problem — sort of sexy in an older-dude way, without reaching grandpa-wheeze turn-off — it just comes with making you grit your teeth and want to tear your ears off.

"So feisty," Peter comments, affable and unfussed as ever. "I bet Elias never saw this coming. Well, that's quite all right," he continues while docilely starting to unbuckle Martin's fake-leather belt, "we can work with that. Lonely at the top, and all such."

Martin wondered, at first, why a Lukas would be so handsy and intent on bending him over a desk, and even more so after all his points about Martin being as isolated as possible. It seemed just a little bit counterproductive, in theory. He got it after the first time, though.

Peter has a way of touching you and just making you feel even lonelier. Maybe it's a family trait, maybe it's a personal talent, who knows, but he's got it down to an art. It's all in the details: the way he never quite looks you in the eye and always addresses a spot somewhere above your shoulder, like he's just talking to a hypothetical idea of you and not quite to _you_ ; the way he says your name a lot yet like it doesn't mean anything to him; the way his skin is so cold it seeps human warmth from you instead of providing any; the way he carries conversations by himself, like you're not nearly a partner, not even a tool, barely the audience, just coincidentally there, and how he fucks you the exact same way too, like he's doing this alone. He offers no inkling that you are a person to him, no empathy, no connection. Martin has spent six months in Peter's uncomfortably close company, is used to him, has had hundreds of conversations with him and a couple dozen intercourses like this, and even with Peter's cock up his arse he has never felt for a second like there was another person physically in the room with him.

It makes sense for what he is. Martin's been getting better at understanding these things, as is probably only natural when you spend months studying something on pain of everyone you've got left dying. This makes sense for the Lonely, as does its alliance with the Eye: you can't miss what you don't know. Peter makes sure you know exactly what you could and should be getting, so you're aware that he's not giving it to you, so you can feel the absence. Long. Pine.

And Martin, by nature, knows.

(Honestly, if he's getting it right, and he's pretty sure he is, the entire thing implies that he should be allowed to talk to Jon. That even ought to be a good thing! Make the loneliness even worse and more powerful! But there are very few moments when it's appropriate to think of Jon, and this is decidedly not one of them.)

Anyway, point is, Peter Lukas even sucks cock in a way that is deliberately impersonal and unfulfilling, but he and everyone knows Martin is a masochist and denial play gets him bad.

This suits him just fine, to be honest. He isn't fucking Peter for his charming personality. He never used to — he remembers, distantly, before, what feels like eons ago, being bewildered and vaguely uncomfortable at the concept of having sex with a partner you don't care about, of just using people like toys. There's casual hook-ups, and there's plain dehumanization and objectification, and apparently there's people who are into that too but he certainly never was.

Right now, though. This works. If he isn't allowed to connect with anyone, if he can reach out but never _reach_ , and impersonal sex with a monster is the best he can get in terms of stress-relief at the end of increasingly eldritch work days, then sure, he'll take it. Two can play the game of lonely selfishness.

His cock hardens inside Peter's mouth and Peter makes a pleased sound, pulls away to say: "That's better. You are honestly doing great, Martin," and Martin pushes his head back down so he'll shut up, so Martin can pretend he's alone.


End file.
